


Lost in you

by fandammit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Written prior to the end to S3, slightly canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:57:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandammit/pseuds/fandammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times Marcus hesitatingly ran his fingers through Abby’s hair and two times Abby deliberately tangled her fingers in Marcus’s hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in you

_Marcus_

“What happened to your hair?” **  
**

Abby tilts her head and looks at him, confused.

He reaches over to pick out two orange-gold leaves out of a snarl in the back of her head and twirls them in front of her.

She laughs and throws her head back, runs her fingers through her hair as she shakes her head back and forth. A shower of small leaves tumble out and land on the floor.

“That -,” he reaches forward and picks out two more pieces of leaf from her hair, “somehow made it even worse.” He combs his hand through her hair and comes out with a bundle of leaf pieces. “What - I mean - how does this even happen?”

She laughs again, clear and genuine.

“I may have gotten in a leaf fight with a few of the kids on our way to collect herbs for the greenhouse.”

He smiles and picks another leaf out of her hair.

“Seems like you were on the losing end of that one, then.”

She shakes her head and looks up at him with a gleam in her eyes.

“You should see the other guys.”

He chuckles at that, then crosses his arms in front of him.

“Then I might be right to assume that our meeting will start a little late?”

She nods and sits down in the stool in front of him, starts running her hands through her hair with an entirely too pleased look on her face. He stares at her for a moment before he realizes what he’s doing, then clears his throat and turns his attention back to map in front of him. He’s halfway through marking the coordinates from the most recent scouting mission when he feels Abby’s hand gently resting on his shoulder. He looks over and sees that the wild tangle of her hair has been combed out; there’s a small pile of leaf pieces clumped together on the table in front of her.

“Can you check the back of my head for me? Just make sure that I got everything?”

He nods and sets down the pen, moving to stand behind her.

“You got most of the bigger ones out, but there’s still a few smaller pieces caught in there.”

He works his hand into the length of her hair, carefully picking out little bits of yellow and orange and red. Her hair is soft and smooth from her own ministrations and his hand glides easily through it. She sighs and leans back slightly in his touch, eyes closed and mouth turned slightly up in a bemused smile. He slows down his work, running each one through the strands slowly, deliberately; scrapes his fingernails gently down her scalp and combing his fingers lightly through the ends of her hair. After a few quiet minutes, he runs his hand down the length of her hair one last time before he clears his throat.

“All set.”

Her eyes flutter open slowly before she turns to look at him, warmth and affection tracing the corners of her gaze.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Abby, it turns out, has only slightly more sense than Marcus when it comes to reporting her own illnesses, in that she waits until she’s on the verge of collapsing in the middle of medical before she admits that she’s contracted the flu.

When he visits her at the end of his guard shift, her fever has finally broken and she’s lucid enough to smile lazily over at him when he sits down next to her. He reaches over to lay his hand on her forehead, smiles when he finds it warmer than usual but no longer alarmingly so.

“You know, you should’ve reported to Jackson the moment you had any symptoms.”

She raises her eyebrow and gives him a slightly incredulous look.

“[This coming from the man I found laying down in the middle of his bedroom floor when he had the flu.](http://fandammit.tumblr.com/post/141398403005/prompt-in-which-marcus-gets-the-flu-and-reverts)”

He huffs a small laugh that she returns with a smile before tilting her head back and stretching her arms above her. She arches her back into it and her shirt hikes up the length of her stomach. His fingers twitch at his side; he’s not sure whether he wants to reach out to tug her shirt down or trail his fingertips across the expanse of skin.

He does neither; reaches over to brush a sweaty strand of hair back from her cheek instead.

“How do you feel?”

She sighs heavily and runs a hand through her hair, slightly damp with sweat.

“Like I could use a bath. I’d probably just end up collapsing in the shower if I tried, though.”

He nods and bites his lip, then takes a deep breath.

“I could wash your hair.” He flicks his glance over to her before gesturing to the sink to the left of her bed. “If you think you could make it over to that, we could just wash your hair in the sink while you sit in a chair.” He tries to keep his voice even, cool, as though there’s nothing inherently intimate about the action at all.

She looks up at him, dazed, before a grin spreads out across the lines of her face and she nods. He gets up to grab a small bucket and a pitcher; he meets Jackson’s eyes briefly as he’s filling up the bucket with warm water and breathes out a sigh of relief when the younger man simply raises an eyebrow then smiles at him before turning to focus on the datapad once more.

He sets the empty pitcher in the bucket of warm water and grabs a small container of shampoo that’s stashed in the back of the toiletries cabinet. Abby is sitting up in bed when he’s done and he loops his arm around her shoulders and slowly shuffles her to the chair that he’s set up in front of the sink.

She sinks down into the chair and sighs as she leans her head against the edge of the counter. He takes a deep breath and reaches around her face to grab her hair in his hands; she tips her head up slightly as he sweeps up the hair from underneath her. He fills up the pitcher with warm water and carefully pours it over her hair

Abby relaxes back into the chair and lets out a soft moan when he begins gently working his free hand in tandem with the fall of warm water, from the roots of her hair and through its entire length; he nearly drops the pitcher at the sound of it, but manages to clench his hand tightly and limit the sudden weakness in his joints to a small tremor. He sets down the pitcher and grabs the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a small amount into her hair before slowly massaging her scalp. He tries to focus on keeping his breathing steady as he does it, can’t help but shift back and forth on the balls of his feet at the sight of Abby sighing softly and nudging his hand with her head. 

He pauses to refill the pitcher back up and washes the suds out of her hair, careful not to get any of the soap into her eyes. He once again gently works his hands through her hair, tells himself he’s only trying to make sure he does a good job, that the softness of her hair or the calm look of contentment on her features has nothing to do with amount of care and time he’s taking on the task. 

Finally, though, the water runs out; he clears his throat and watches as Abby reluctantly opens her eyes. She smiles up at him, wide and bright. 

“I guess I know how you feel, now.” 

He tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes in confusion. She huffs a small laugh and shakes her head before meeting his eyes once more. 

[“If I’d known I was gonna get this treatment, I also would’ve gone into medical sooner.” ](http://fandammit.tumblr.com/post/141473914380/fic-prompt-kane-getting-sick-abby-tacking-care)

* * *

_Abby_

When she finally, _finally_ sees him again, the first thing she does is grab him and tangle her hands into the curling hair at his neck. Then, she crushes her lips to his, pouring all her hope and want and desperation into the angle of her mouth, the slide of her tongue, the tug of her lips. She breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against his. She can’t stop running her hands through his hair, relishing the feel of it, of him, close and warm and steady.

“You’re here.”

He breathes her in and runs his hands down her back, her arms, any part of her that he can reach. She presses herself closer to him and runs her hands down the planes of his back, feels his motions still as he nods against her.

“I’m here.” He moves back slightly to look down at her, sorrow and regret invading the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t - that you - ”

She shakes her head, grips his hair tightly in her hands before she tips her head up and breathes the words against his lips.

“Stop. Just - don’t. We’re here now.” She ends her sentence with another kiss, this time slow and languid. She tugs gently on the ends of his hair, lifting herself up to fall more fully into him and trail a line of kisses up his jawline. She tugs gently on his lower earlobe with the edges of her teeth, feels the hair that’s swooped low by his ears tickle her nose as she does it. She huffs out a small laugh, feels a shiver run through him as she does, and leans in close to murmur her words into his ear. “Marcus, you need a haircut.”

He chuckles low in his throat and shakes his head, a shock of hair falling into his eyes as he does so. She tips her head to the side and reaches up to move the hair back from his eyes; he angles his head to press his lips to her wrist, right above her pulse point. He cups her face in his hands and brushes his fingers over her cheekbones. 

“Ok, ok, alright,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss. “Whatever you want, Abby.”

_Want_. 

The word pulses through her and settles itself in the pit of her stomach, sparks a sudden warmth in her chest that spreads out through her nerves. Suddenly, abruptly, she feels painfully weighed down by the heaviness of desire and need and love, by the sensation of wanting so long and being separated by distance and opportunity and the ability to choose. 

She wraps both her hands on either side of his face, her fingers twisted in the too long strands of his hair, and pulls him down for bruising kiss. It is not slow or soft or gentle; it is desperate and sure and hopeful all at once. It is an apology and a prayer and promise, spoken in shaky sighs and the brush of tongues and lips and teeth. 

She swallows his moan when she tugs forcefully on the ends of his hair, presses closer when he shivers at the feel of her hands underneath his shirt, smiles as his breath catches when she rubs herself against the lines of him. 

“You,” she breathes out heavily, her voice low with desire, “I want you.”

* * *

She wakes up in the early hours of the morning, half draped across him with her hair spread out across his torso, strands of it brushing up against his adam’s apple every time he swallows.

She can feel a telltale shift in his breathing that signals wakefulness, tightens her arm around him as he trails one hand up the arm that’s curled across him and settles the other in her deep brunette waves. She savors the feel of his hands on her, gently tugging their way through the tangled strands and mapping out nonsense patterns onto her bare back. A shudder lances through her when he trails his fingers down the contours of her spine, then traces a line back up the side of her, lingering slightly over the rise of her breast and opening his palm up to cup her face. 

She shifts her legs onto either side of him and stretches up, bracing her arms on either side of his chest as she reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair. One of his hands grips her thigh tightly, while the other finds its way into the hair that’s cascading over her shoulders. She dips her head down to kiss him, sighing as he gently works his fingers through the length of her hair.

* * *

Later, when the sweat has dried on her skin and she’s firmly wrapped in his arms, she reaches up and threads her fingers through the curls at the base of his head. 

She rakes her fingers through it, scratches her nails through the soft hairs at the base of his skull, and smiles into his shoulder when she feels a shiver go through him. 

“I changed my mind,” she murmurs softly, tipping her head up and pressing a kiss into the soft hollow of his throat. “I don’t want you to get a haircut.” 

He chuckles and presses a kiss into her hairline. 

“You have a strange fascination with my hair,” he says, softly, teasingly.

She doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say how long she’s thought about, dreamed about, wished to run her hands through it _just because_. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just twists her hand through the strands, buries her face into the crook of his neck, and breathes him in.


End file.
